Not This Time
by dee ayy
Summary: He was not going to die. This time. She was not going to lose him. This time. A fill-in-the-blank for season 3, episode 3, "Blood and Fear," covering the time between Ichabod being stabbed in the parking garage and sleeping on the sofa at home.


**NOT THIS TIME**

By dee_ayy

October 22, 2015

Where was the ambulance? She pushed his hair off his face again, this damned shorter hair that was just everywhere now. Why did he do that to his gorgeous long hair?

Do something. **DO** something.

She pushed Crane's hand away from the wound. It was too dark to see clearly, but it was still bleeding, she could tell. Stop the bleeding. She put his hand back-it was larger than hers, after all-placed hers on top, and pressed. Hard as she could, she pressed. Stop the bleeding.

He groaned.

"Crane? Crane? Come on. Open your eyes for me."

They didn't open, but he stirred. In her arms, she felt it.

"Crane?"

"Lieutenant?" Barely a whisper.

She sighed.

"That's it. That's it, Crane, stay with me."

"Malaria," he breathed out.

What? She looked over at Nelson, still unconscious just feet away.

"Yes, yes Crane, you got him. We got him."

"No." Each word was an effort, she could tell. "Me."

"You? What do you mean, you? Crane?" A tightness gripped her chest. She knew what he was going to say.

But he didn't say anything, just slowly lifted his right hand. Even in the dark, dank space, she could see the bloody spot where the needle had entered his skin.

Dammit.

It seemed like forever. Forever listening to Crane breathe and feeling him shudder in pain. But finally she heard the telltale sounds of help.

"IN HERE!" she shouted, as loudly as she could. She felt him start under her hands. "Sorry," she whispered.

And finally. Help.

"He's been stabbed," she rushed out. "In the abdomen. I tried to stop the bleeding."

"Okay, we got him," a voice said. Faces. She wasn't registering any faces. Hands were pulling her away from him, and gently lowering him to the ground.

She didn't want to let go.

But she did.

"What was he stabbed with?" someone asked. Still no faces. She scanned the ground, and found it. "That," she said, pointing. A uniform picked it up.

She saw the empty vial on the ground nearby. She picked that up.

"Is this the assailant?" Another voice. This time, Abbie paid attention.

"Yes," she answered. "Also responsible for the murder yesterday" She flashed her badge. "I'll give you a full report later, but . . . ." She looked over at Crane. He had an oxygen mask on his face now, and an IV in his hand. Paramedics were speaking to him. She could not hear him, could not even see his lips moving, but he must have been answering, because they kept talking to him.

A gurney appeared, and when Crane was lifted on to it, he cried out. That was when she ran to his side.

XXXXXX

The respite of oblivion was short-lived, and all he knew was pain. Every breath, every movement, no matter how slight, was excruciating. He tried not to let it show, tried not to worry the lieutenant any further, but he knew he was unsuccessful; he felt his own body shaking, and knew she felt it, too. But he kept his eyes closed. He did not want to see the fear and worry on her face; did not want to add to her distress any further.

She was whispering things to him. He tried to listen; tried to hear, but concentration was impossible. He just let her hold him, that being comfort enough. But when she pressed on his wound, he could stifle his distress no longer.

"…Open your eyes," he heard her say. But he could not. Instead, he said her name. "Lieutenant." There was something he had to tell her. Something she had to know; something the medical personnel would need to know if they were to properly aid him.

"Malaria."

He showed her. She knew, and she would tell them. Help was coming. She promised.

Breathe.

Only when he felt Abbie being pulled away did he open his eyes again. His coat was removed as he was being placed on the cold cement floor, and though they were gentle, his distress only increased.

"What is your name, sir?" He looked for her, content to let her provide this information, but all he saw were unfamiliar faces hovering above him. Right, then.

"Ichabod Crane," he gritted out.

"Okay, Ichabod, we've got you." Did they? He sincerely hoped they did. A hand pulled his away from the wound, and something was placed over it; a bandage, he surmised. The pressure caused him to grunt his discomfort.

"Sorry," the medic offered. "Hurts, huh?"

An understatement. When he'd suffered his mortal wound in that other life, he'd oddly felt no pain. "Shock," Abbie had called it when he'd told her of that time late one night in the archives. He craved some 'shock' right now, to be completely honest. Something was fitted over his face, and suddenly he could breathe more easily. Oxygen. Yes, he'd seen that on the television. He realized that everything he knew about what was happening to him, he knew from _teevee._

"How is your pain, Ichabod?

Oh, that had been a question.

"Considerable," he replied. It sounded muffled to his own ears. He could not tell if he was being heard. He did not much care.

The man smiled at him. "Then let's get you out of here." He'd been heard.

When they lifted him, Crane could not help himself. He screamed. But any shame he may have felt at this weakness was soon assuaged, as the sound brought the lieutenant back to his side.

"I'll be right behind you, okay?" He felt her hand in his hair. "You relax, you'll be at the hospital in no time. Lights and sirens. The whole deal."

He tried to smile at her attempt to lighten the mood, but was quite sure he was unsuccessful. He settled for locking eyes with her. He tried to let her know that he would be okay.

He was sure he failed.

He started to move, and the darkness of the parking structure was suddenly replaced with the unbearable brightness of the inside of the ambulance. He turned his head away from the overhead lighting, and slammed his eyes shut.

"Ichabod? Ichabod, I need to ask you some questions. You with me?"

Crane surmised that a nod would be sufficient, and it was.

"Do you have any medical conditions I should know about?" He shook his head. "How about allergies?"

"Not that I am aware, no."

"What about this scar on your chest?"

Crane had not even been aware that it had been exposed. He took a deep breath, which increased his pain considerably, a fact which did not go unnoticed.

"Are you having trouble breathing?" he was asked, the scar forgotten.

In point of fact, he was having trouble doing anything right now. But breathing was no more difficult than anything else, so he answered honestly. "No."

"Good." The man was a flurry of activity around his person, but Crane did not want to know. Nevertheless, the medic kept a running commentary as we worked, explaining his every task. Heart monitor, blood pressure, a device clipped to his finger. A curious man, Ichabod would normally be fascinated. But it was all too much, and he did his best to 'tune out' everything.

He felt himself start to drift off, a welcome result, he believed, but he was apparently wrong.

"HEY!" the young man admonished. "Stay with me here!"

Ichabod concentrated, and obliged.

"We're here," he was soon told.

XXXXXXX

Abbie wanted to ride in the ambulance with him, wanted to reassure him and protect him and see for herself that he was okay. But she could not.

Instead, she settled for telling him she'd be right behind, and as soon as she learned their destination, she ran for her car. As she did, she dialed her phone.

"Jenny? It's Crane. He's been stabbed. I'm on my way to Westchester Medical. Can you meet me there?" She barely gave her sister a chance to speak before she disconnected the call. She wasn't one to ask for help. To admit she was scared. To admit she didn't want to be alone. And she'd actually done none of those things. While doing them all.

Abbie threw the police flasher on her dashboard and floored it. Westchester Medical. Not Phelps Memorial, which was several miles closer, but wasn't a level 1 trauma unit.

The paramedics thought it was that bad.

Abbie honestly thought she might be sick, but she wouldn't allow that. She just fell in line behind the ambulance, and she drove.

She pulled into the hospital parking lot and ran so fast that she reached the ER doors right behind Crane's gurney. She followed it, but was stopped at the trauma room doors. She flashed her badge. "I have to go with him. I have important information for the doctors."

The orderly who'd halted her progress paused for a moment, but then let her through.

He looked pale. Paler than 10 minutes ago, when she'd last laid eyes on him. But no, she was being ridiculous. It had been too dark in the garage.

But he looked pale.

Someone else approached her. "Are you family?"

Yes. No. Yes and no.

"I'm, umm . . . he's my partner." She flashed her badge again, hoping that would work.

Crane was turning his head from side to side as the medical staff worked over him. Looking for something? Someone?

"Okay," the woman in front of her said. "I get that you're worried about him. But you really can't be in here. We need room to work. Someone will" Abbie cut her off.

"No. I need to tell you something. He was injected with something."

A middle-aged man at Crane's head looked up. "Injected? With what?" He approached her.

Abbie pulled the vial from her pocket and held it up. "With malaria. He had this in his hand when he was stabbed. It went into his right hand."

The doctor, for that is clearly who she was speaking to now, lifted Crane's hand and saw the injection site. To his credit, his face registered neither shock nor surprise. "We'll deal with that later. Right now our immediate concern is the stab wound."

The nurse took the vial and pocketed it. "Okay, thanks," she said. "And now we really need to ask you to leave. We'll find you as soon as we know something."

And just like that, Abbie was ushered through the doors, and was back in the hallway.

She hadn't even had a chance to tell Crane she was there.

XXXXXXX

He was looking for her, but did not see her. Did not see much of anything besides bright lights and the hurried movement of bodies around him. They were poking and pricking him, and he had no idea what was happening, but was not inclined to stop them. Let them work, he told himself.

Then he heard her. "I need to tell you something," Yes. As he knew she would, she was telling them.

"Mr. Crane?" Ah. Ichabod in the ambulance, Mr. Crane here.

"Yes?"

"On a scale of one to ten, one being nonexistent and 10 being the worst you ever felt, how would you rate your pain?"

"Considerable," he offered again. Those numbers were meaningless to him.

"On a scale of one to ten," was repeated. Ridiculous.

"Seven," he decided, based on nothing but their desire for a _number._

"Okay, good," a different voice replied. The same voice that had just been talking to Abbie. Was she still here? He thought not.

Just relax.

Impossible. Ridiculous thought.

"We'll give you something for that, I promise, but first we'll give you a local so I can inspect the wound, okay?"

Did he have a choice? Crane did not answer.

"Call CT," the physician said. Ichabod suddenly felt an intense burning added to the pain of his wound, causing him to gasp. And after a moment, the doctor was doing as promised, "inspecting the wound." The pain was dulled a bit, but only a bit.

"Sorry," the doctor offered. Crane must have conveyed his discomfort, but he'd been unaware.

Quickly that unpleasantness ended, and the doctor was speaking directly to him. He should pay attention, he knew. So he tried his best.

"Mr. Crane, we're going to send you for x-rays and a CT scan in a few minutes, to look for internal bleeding. Do you understand?" Ichabod nodded. "So far everything looks good, but that wound is pretty deep, so I'll be shocked if you're not bleeding internally, which will require a trip to the OR."

OR. He scanned his memory of every medical program he'd seen on the television. He knew he'd heard it before. _Operating room._ Surgery.

Oh, no.

But of course that would be the expected outcome. It had been a possibility after his encounter with the golem, and that wound had been in the shoulder. This was much more serious, he knew.

"All right," he whispered.

"Just relax," the doctor advised, patting him on the shoulder as he did.

Impossible. Ridiculous command.

XXXXXXX

Abbie was pacing the waiting room, checking the time literally every 35 seconds, when Jenny rushed in.

"How is he?"

"I don't know yet. They won't let me in there." Abbie noticed Joe hanging back, two paces behind her sister. "Hey, Joe."

Jenny looked back at their friend. "We were together when you called. Thought maybe he'd come in useful, being an EMT and all."

Joe shook his head in exasperation, but closed the gap between them. "They'll tell you as soon as they know something," he promised.

"I know."

"So what the hell happened?"

Abbie explained the situation, as best she could, since she hadn't actually witnessed what had happened. "It's bad, though," she concluded. "I can tell it's bad."

"You don't know that," Joe offered. "I've seen abdominal wounds that turn out to be nothing."

"They drove 10 miles out of the way to come here instead of Phelps, Joe. It's bad." Abbie countered. She was snapping at him, she knew, but she hated when people tried to sugar coat. "What's taking them so long?" she asked, but it wasn't really a question. Joe and Jenny must have realized that, because no one offered an answer.

The two late-arrivers sat, and Abbie resumed her pacing. All they could do was wait.

Thirty-seven minutes passed. Jenny tried to approach her sister once, but Abbie would have none of it. No comfort, no platitudes, no empty promises that everything would be okay. She realized that she'd called her sister here, and was now rejecting her comfort, but she couldn't. She just couldn't.

And she was banking on Jenny's understanding.

Seven more minutes, and then the doctor appeared. Abbie rushed him, she realized, but she couldn't help herself. She noticed that Jenny and Joe were right behind her.

"We're sending him for a CT scan now. Right now he looks good; he's hemodynamically stable and fully alert. In a great deal of pain, but that's to be expected. But given the depth and location of the wound, I'm anticipating a trip to the OR is in his future. But we'll see what the scans show us."

Abbie had been actually holding her breath, and allowed herself to release it. "Thank you. Can I see him?"

"Like I said, in the scanner. Maybe when he gets back. I'll send someone out for you."

And he was gone.

More waiting.

XXXXXXX

Crane promised himself he would block the indignities he'd experienced during this ordeal from his eidetic memory. It would be for the best. He was settled into a different room than before, still attached to all sorts of machinery, including something pressed into his nose delivering oxygen. Uncomfortable, but preferable to the full mask of earlier. The flurry around him had died away, which he took to be a good sign. In fact, there was only one person, a nurse, he believed, with him. She approached with a plastic bag full of fluid, which she hung above his head and attached to his intravenous device.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Antibiotics," the nurse said. "Who knows what was on that knife, ya know?"

He knew.

She held up a syringe. "And how about some pain medication?" She plunged it into the tubing.

"That's lovely," he breathed out.

The woman chuckled. "It'll make you drowsy, but try to stay awake, okay? The doctor is going to come talk to you." She raised the head of his bed slightly. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you." But despite the medication, the movement caused a wave of increased pain to wash over him, and he could not resist a gasp.

"I'll go look for the doctor."

"May I see my friend? Miss Mills. Abbie Mills. I know she is here. Somewhere."

"I'll see what I can do," the nurse promised, and she left.

And he was alone. For the first time in . . . how long since this nightmare had begun? He hadn't the faintest idea.

An eternity.

He took a moment to assess. Aside from the pain, he was surprised to realize that he felt rather all right. Not ill, not particularly fatigued, just pained. And even that discomfort was abating, from a searing, sharp pain to a constant throb. A large bandage covered the wound on the lower left side of his abdomen. It was firmly taped in place, or he would have peeked beneath, curious to see for himself what damage had been done.

He tried to relax. Tried to forget the feeling of that blade piercing his skin. Tried to forget the memory of what he'd done, what he'd been willing to do, to end that tragic boy's rampage. Yes, he'd had every reason to believe the malaria would not prove fatal, and Miss Mills had informed him of the many drugs available to treat it now. But he had had no control over where Nelson might stab him. He did not want to die, of course, but he understood his mission. Always had. And he had always understood that he was willing to sacrifice his very life. He hoped that he had not done that this time, but he would not know for sure until he spoke to his physician. He did not think he had.

Not this time.

Still, it would be nice to be told this for certain. But all he could do was wait.

It was not long before the doctor arrived. Crane wished Abbie was there to hear this news, regardless of what it may be, and considered requesting her presence, but he did not.

"You, Mr. Crane, are one lucky man," he started. And Ichabod sighed with relief.

No apparent internal injury, the man said. Miraculous, he said. Crane did not question. Did not bother to dispute how incredibly unlikely this outcome was, all things considered. There were greater forces at work in his life than the simple trajectory of a blade, he knew.

"Still, wounds like this are tricky," the physician was saying. "We're going to want to admit you and keep a close eye on you for at least a day."

"Is that entirely necessary?" Crane implored. "I would really prefer to go home."

"I'm sure you would. But our tests are notoriously difficult to definitively diagnose bleeding without cutting you open, and we don't want to do that without cause. Keeping you here and observing you will allow us to act fast if you suddenly go south."

"I understand," Crane said, and he did not press the issue with this man. But his desire to leave did not change.

XXXXXXX

Fifty-two minutes more minutes had passed.

Fifty-three.

"Abbie, sit," Jenny implored. "You're driving everyone crazy." The agent glared at her sister, but said nothing.

She could not sit. Stillness was not her friend at times like this. If she could be _doing_ something other than pacing, she would be.

Fifty-five.

Fifty-six.

A nurse walked in. Not helpful. Until she spoke: "Ummm, Mills? Abbie Mills?"

Abbie practically shouted. "Yes! That's me."

"Your friend is asking for you."

"He is? Is he okay? Can I see him?"

"Follow me."

Abbie looked back at Jenny and Joe. Jenny smiled at her and urged her on with a nod. Abbie followed.

He wasn't in the trauma room any longer. That had to be good. He was lying quietly, with his eyes closed, as she approached.

Suddenly, she didn't know what to say. "Hey," is all that came out.

He grinned, but it took a moment for him to open his eyes.

"Miss Mills." That's all. Miss Mills.

"Some day, Crane, you're going to have to start calling me Abbie."

"Old habits, Miss . . . _Abbie._ Old habits."

"How are you feeling? What did the doctor say?"

"I am feeling . . . " he paused, ". . . tolerable," he decided. But as if on cue, he gasped and clutched his side where the knife had entered. "Despite receiving pain medication, it hurts."

Abbie wanted desperately to do something, but she did not know what. She could not even bring herself to touch him. Suddenly, standing here in front of him, everything Pandora had taunted her with in the garage came rushing back. She honestly had been so concerned about Crane, she hadn't given it a thought-until right this moment.

 _Tell me. How does that feel? To know that his life is slipping through your fingers. To know that you're alone now. Alone in this fight of yours. Alone in this world._

No. She pushed the thought back out of her head. He was right in front of her. Nothing had slipped anywhere. She was not alone. Not this time. And no matter what the doctor said, Crane wasn't going anywhere. Not tonight.

"Lieutenant?"

Crane's voice snapped her from this morbid reverie. "Sorry. What?"

"Are you all right?"

Abbie snorted. "I'm supposed to be asking you that."

"As you did."

"Stop it. Stop trying to make me feel better, Crane. Just stop."

"Why would I do that, Miss Mills," he teased tiredly. " After all, I am the one who was stabbed."

Damn him. She smiled.

"What did the doctor say?"

"That I am, and I quote, 'miraculous.'"

"What?"

"'Tis true. There is absolutely no evidence of internal bleeding, despite the location of the wound suggesting otherwise."

"Wow." She didn't know what else to say.

"Indeed." Crane pushed himself up onto his elbows, grimacing all the way. "So I should like to go home."

"Is that okay with the doctor?"

"No." Both Crane and Abbie were startled by the new voice. It was the doctor. "Mr. Crane knows full well that I want to keep him for at least 24 hours."

"Crane!" Abbie admonished.

"No," Crane objected. "I will not 'go south,' as you put it. I am most certain. There is no reason for me to stay in this place."

"I can think of a few," the doctor offered.

XXXXXXX

A compromise had been reached. He would stay here under observation for several hours, and then be allowed to leave, to be closely observed at home. The lieutenant had promised to undertake that task.

She'd asked why it was so important to him to leave, and he himself had trouble articulating a reason. This was a horrible place, to be sure, but that was not it. The expense, of course, was a concern, but that, too, was not the guiding force. It was just a feeling. A strong desire. A _need._ He had to leave this place.

His wound had been closed, and much of the machinery and paraphernalia had been removed. He no longer had the oxygen, and while the device had been uncomfortable and made him feel a desire to sneeze, he had actually enjoyed the fresh, cool air. But not needing that assistance was a condition of his release, so he was pleased that it was gone. The device monitoring the beats of his heart was also no longer attached. All he kept was the IV, a band around his upper arm, and the clip on his finger. This, being allowed to repose on an incline, along with the pain medication, had increased his comfort level considerably.

Abbie had left, to run an errand and collect some clothes for him, as the ones he'd been wearing had been destroyed, so he allowed himself to close his eyes.

"Hey, Crane." The voice of Miss Jenny startled him to attention.

"Miss Jenny! What are you doing here?" He noticed the Joe Corbin was also here. "And Master Corbin?"

Jenny approached the bed and hugged him lightly. He reciprocated.

"What the hell did you do, Crane?" she asked teasingly.

"I stopped a murderer," he explained. He had, after all.

Jenny chuckled. "With your gut? Has to be a better way."

"Quite," the injured man agreed.

"So Abbie asked me to hang out with you until she gets back."

"Unnecessary, Miss Jenny, though you have my thanks. I am feeling rather well at the moment, just a bit tired; there is no need for you to remain."

"Forget it. We're not leaving you alone in this godforsaken place. You should know that by now."

"I hesitate to call it godforsaken, Miss Jenny, but it certainly is unpleasant."

"Tell me about it," Jenny agreed. So she had experience in such a place. Interesting. "Look, we'll let you sleep, and check in on you later, okay?"

"Thank you," he sighed, and closed his eyes.

XXXXXXX

Abbie unlocked the front door and looked behind her. Crane was draped somewhat bonelessly between Joe and Jenny as they led him up the walk. She entered their house and tried to decide, bedroom, or sofa? Bedroom would probably be more comfortable, but sofa allowed her access to the entire house while still keeping an eye on him.

"Where do you want him?" Joe asked as they crossed the threshold.

"On the sofa for now," she decided.

Crane wasn't asleep on his feet, but he wasn't quite awake, either. He'd received another dose of pain medication, probably in error, shortly before they left. That was fine with her, as all of this movement would have been excruciating for him otherwise.

She noticed Jenny was yanking off his boots, and Joe had run back to the car. She went to the closet and got a blanket.

Joe returned with an IV pole they'd "borrowed," and another bag of antibiotic solution—at least he'd still be getting that medication he needed. The staff at the hospital knew Joe, and had agreed, unofficially, to allow him to set Crane up at home, which he was doing now. They'd left the catheter in his hand. Abbie pulled the bottle of antimalarial pills from her pocket.

What a mess.

"All set," Joe told her. "I'll come by later today and pull that for him. But when the bag runs out, you can just shut it off and disconnect it where I reconnected it. You know what else to do?"

Monitor his temperature. Quiz him on his pain. Watch him. Closely. Panic at any changes. Yes, she knew.

She nodded. "Thanks, Joe, for everything."

"Happy to help," he answered. "Those pain meds he was given pack a wallop. He'll probably sleep for hours."

As she spread the blanket over his still, pale form, she paused.

"You okay, Abbie?" Jenny knew her too well.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired."

"Want me to stay?"

No. Definitely not.

"Nah, Jenny, thanks. We're good. You guys get out of here."

They left, finally, and Abbie was alone with her sleeping, injured Crane. She settled herself into the chair beside the sofa. The sun was rising, she noticed. How many times? How many times was she going to lose this man? And how many times was she going to get him back? How many times before it was just too much for her to bear?

As if she had a choice.

But not tonight. She hadn't lost him tonight.

Not this time.

 **FIN.**


End file.
